the hezhan charged forward. The akhoz darted to one side and gripped the hezhan’s massive arm. A sizzling sound filled the air as the hezhan moaned and reared backward. Its arm dried in an instant and powdered to dust as the akhoz retreated once more.
She was not quick enough, however. The other arm of the hezhan pounded her across the head. It sounded like a hammer that butchers use to fell pigs before the slaughter. The akhoz flew through the air and landed in a heap, her head bent backward under her body.
She lay there, lifeless, as the other akhoz approached, and when Nikandr looked beyond to the city, he saw three more shamble from the streets-then another pair-all of them heading their way. They had only minutes to defeat the nearest of them and flee before they were overwhelmed.
The older akhoz leapt when it neared the vanahezhan. The beast was not ready for it, and the akhoz landed on its chest. The akhoz remained in place as it hugged the chest of the earth spirit and released a hoarse cry into the air. The hezhan moaned as the heat intensified to the point that Nikandr had to retreat.
Moments later, the hezhan’s body powdered just as its arm had, and parts of it began to ablate in a way that was eerily similar to Muqallad’s death.
Nikandr tried to advance with his kindjal, but the heat was too intense. However, when the hezhan finally fell to the ground, the heat dropped to almost normal levels. The akhoz was bent over, perhaps recovering itself after expending so much energy.
Nikandr did not hesitate. He advanced and struck, driving the knife deep into the exposed back of the akhoz.
The creature turned and knocked Nikandr away with a vicious swipe of its arm. The heat from the akhoz’s skin was not nearly as formidable as it had been moments ago, but it was still enough to burn Nikandr’s forearm. He fell away, and rolled back to his feet.
The akhoz screamed as he tried to reach the knife in his back, but each time he grabbed the hilt of the weapon, he screamed louder and pulled his hand away as if the kindjal were burning him.
Ashan was kneeling, his arms spaced wide and his hands flat against the ground. He was whispering and rocking rhythmically back and forth. There was a pool of water collecting before him, and it was starting to trickle downhill. Before it could go far, however, it rose up and took form. It looked vaguely childlike-reaching only Nikandr’s waist-but it was twice as wide as he was.
The jalahezhan rolled forward and struck the akhoz’s legs. A sizzling sound accompanied the water spirit’s efforts as it slipped higher and higher along the akhoz’s body. The akhoz screamed, still trying to rid himself of the knife while bearing down to create more heat. A white gout of steam rose as the two creatures fought for control.
The jalahezhan seemed to be holding its own-the akhoz had been forced to the ground and water was gurgling into his mouth-but then the trailing akhoz reached it, and soon they had surrounded the water spirit. Moments later, the jalahezhan lost form and the water splashed to the ground. Steam rose. Their feet sizzled as they collectively turned and began moving up the trail.
Nikandr and Ashan and Nasim fled, but they were exhausted, and Ashan had already summoned two hezhan, something that must have sapped his strength sorely.
Finally, Ashan stopped, his breath coming in great gasps. He turned and faced the akhoz, opening his arms wide and tilting his head back to the sky while whispering words of prayer or perhaps commands in Mahndi. In the air before him the telltale signs of a dhoshahezhan formed. A crackling sound rent the air, which smelled suddenly acrid. Its shape-more elusive than when they were seen playing among lightning storms-was fluid, like an air spirit, but also more angular as the faint sparks of light brought on by its energy defined its boundaries.
Nikandr kneeled next to Nasim and turned the boy to face him. “Please. You must do something.”
But Nasim didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were clamped shut and his face held a look of supreme discomfort, as if what he were doing was already taking too much. What effect it might be having, Nikandr had no idea. Perhaps without Nasim’s efforts they would be facing a score of akhoz and not just six.
Still, six, twenty, it mattered little if the dhoshahezhan could not save them, and Nikandr didn’t see how it could.
The akhoz once again surrounded the hezhan, preferring to deal with the thing that might harm them before dispatching their true prey. This was not so easy as the last, however. Blue-white lightning arced from the hezhan, through three of them, and back to the source. Two of them spasmed and dropped to the ground, unconscious or dead; the third fell to hands and knees, its torso convulsing as it fought to regain control of its body.
The other akhoz reared backward-a posture reminiscent of what Ashan had just done-and exhaled gouts of flame from their mouths. The muscles along their necks tightened like bowstrings, and their arms flayed backward as they released every remaining bit of breath within their lungs.
The shimmering signs of the dhoshahezhan seemed to elongate as the fire pulled the air upward. More lightning shot downward, arcing between two of the akhoz, but it was noticeably weaker than the previous, and the akhoz were only momentarily fazed. Together the four remaining breathed once more, and the death throes of the hezhan were evidenced by a faint crackle and the barest winking of light.
The two wounded akhoz had just begun lifting themselves from the ground when a great boom rent the air. The skin of three of the akhoz lifted in random places about their bodies as grape shot tore into them.
Nikandr looked up and saw a ship-the Kavda — floating not a hundred paces above them in the sky, and standing at the gunwale, his face unreadable, was Grigory Stasayev Bolgravya.
The fore cannon bucked as it coughed its own shot, and another of the akhoz was taken. The gun crew worked feverishly to reload as a rope ladder snaked downward.
Nikandr guided Nasim as Ashan limped toward the ladder. The akhoz screamed and gave chase, but they seemed hesitant. They released their fiery breath up toward the ship, but it didn’t travel high enough to do damage.
One of the akhoz shook its head and sprinted forward, but its left arm was taken off by another blast from the rear cannon. It fell to the ground, moaning and reaching for the dismembered arm that now lay far out of reach.
The ship descended far enough that Nikandr could lift Nasim up to the ladder. Ashan followed and Nikandr brought up the rear as the ship lifted. Nikandr’s legs and feet were burned by one last blast from two more akhoz, but he would count himself lucky if he had only blisters.
When he reached the deck, he found Grigory waiting. Five streltsi stood behind him-two held Ashan and Nasim; the other three held pistols at the ready.
Grigory jutted his chin toward the ladder. “If I hadn’t been given orders to bring you back, Iaroslov, I would have left you to them.”
Nikandr held his eye. “Spoken like a hound well trained.”
Grigory waved one hand, at which point two of the streltsi came forward and bound Nikandr’s hands behind his back. “We’ll see if your tongue is so loose when you return to a Khalakovo that finds itself in Bolgravyan hands.”
“Never.”
Grigory smiled. “By now Vostroma will have ordered the attack. ”Grigory shook his head sadly. “The eyrie will be taken first. Radiskoye will be saved for last, and it will be torn apart unless your father agrees to cede his islands to us.”
“He would die first.”
The smile on Grigory’s face was one of pure pleasure. “We can only hope, Nischka. And do not worry for your former bride. She has been promised to me, to reforge the southern alliance that has been, shall we say, lacking these last twenty years. I care little for that, but I will admit that I won’t mind sharing a bed with Atiana Radieva.”
Grigory paused, waiting for Nikandr to speak, and then his face lit into a smile and he released a full-chested laugh. “Your bride has just been stolen, Nischka. Can it be the vaunted Son of the North has no words?”
“She was never my bride,” Nikandr said, feeling his face burn. “She was a woman chosen by my mother, a woman as replaceable as your own mother.”
It was Grigory’s turn to burn red. His mother, Alesya, had been spurned by the Duke of Mirkotsk when he discovered just how homely she was. It had led to a small skirmish between the two duchies and had nearly led to civil war. Stasa had taken her as his bride, cementing his relationship with Dhalingrad, and he had refused to allow
